CHAPTER XIV.
JEREMY TAYLOR.
One Tuesday morning, in the spring, the curate received by the local
post the following letter dated from The Park-Gate.
"Respected Sir,
"An obligation on my part which you have no doubt forgotten gives me
courage to address you on a matter which seems to me of no small
consequence concerning yourself. You do not know me, and the name at
the end of my letter will have for you not a single association. The
matter itself must be its own excuse.
"I sat in a free seat at the Abbey church last Sunday morning. I had
not listened long to the sermon ere I began to fancy I foresaw what
was coming, and in a few minutes more I seemed to recognise it as
one of Jeremy Taylor's. When I came home, I found that the best
portions of one of his sermons had, in the one you read, been
wrought up with other material.
"If, sir, I imagined you to be one of such as would willingly have
that regarded as their own which was better than they could produce,
and would with contentment receive any resulting congratulations, I
should feel that I was only doing you a wrong if I gave you a hint
which might aid you in avoiding detection; for the sooner the truth
concerning such a one was known, and the judgment of society brought
to bear upon it, the better for him, whether the result were
justification or the contrary. But I have read that in your
countenance and demeanour which convinces me that, however custom
and the presence of worldly elements in the community to which you
belong may have influenced your judgment, you require only to be set
thinking of a matter, to follow your conscience with regard to
whatever you may find involved in it. I have the honour to be,
respected sir,
"Your obedient servant and well-wisher,
"Joseph Polwarth."
Wingfold sat staring at the letter, slightly stunned. The feeling
which first grew recognizable in the chaos it had caused, was
vexation at having so committed himself; the next, annoyance with
his dead old uncle for having led him into such a scrape. There in
the good doctor's own handwriting lay the sermon, looking nowise
different from the rest! Had he forgotten his marks of quotation? Or
to that sermon did he always have a few words of extempore
introduction? For himself he was as ignorant of Jeremy Taylor as of
Zoroaster. It could not be that that was his uncle's mode of making
his sermons? Was it possible they could all be pieces of literary
mosaic? It was very annoying. If the fact came to be known, it would
certainly be said that he had attempted to pass off Jeremy Taylor's
for his own--as if he would have the impudence to make the attempt,
and with such a well-known writer! But what difference did it make
whether the writer was well or ill known? None, except as to the
relative probabilities of escape and discovery! And should the
accusation be brought against him, how was he to answer it? By
burdening the reputation of his departed uncle with the odium of the
fault? Was it worse in his uncle to use Jeremy Taylor than in
himself to use his uncle? Or would his remonstrants accept the
translocation of blame? Would the church-going or chapel-going
inhabitants of Glaston remain mute when it came to be discovered
that since his appointment he had not once preached a sermon of his
own? How was it that knowing all about it in the background of his
mind, he had never come to think of it before? It was true that,
admirer of his uncle as he was, he had never imagined himself
reaping any laurels from the credit of his sermons; it was equally
true however that he had not told a single person of the hidden
cistern whence he drew his large discourse. But what could it matter
to any man, so long as a good sermon was preached, where it came
from? He did not occupy the pulpit in virtue of his personality, but
of his office, and it was not a place for the display of
originality, but for dispensing the bread of life.--From the stores
of other people?--Yes, certainly--if other people's bread was
better, and no one the worse for his taking it. "For me, I have
none," he said to himself. Why then should that letter have made him
uncomfortable? What had he to be ashamed of? Why should he object to
being found out? What did he want to conceal? Did not everybody know
that very few clergymen really made their own sermons? Was it not
absurd, this mute agreement that, although all men knew to the
contrary, it must appear to be taken for granted that a man's
sermons were of his own mental production? Still more absurd as well
as cruel was the way in which they sacrificed to the known falsehood
by the contempt they poured upon any fellow the moment they were
able to say of productions which never could have been his, that
they were by this man or that man, or bought at this shop or that
shop in Great Queen Street or Booksellers' Row. After that he was an
enduring object for the pointed finger of a mild scorn. It was
nothing but the old Spartan game of--steal as you will and enjoy as
you can: you are nothing the worse; but woe to you if you are caught
in the act! There WAS something contemptible about the whole thing.
He was a greater humbug than he had believed himself, for upon this
humbug which he now found himself despising he had himself been
acting diligently! It dawned upon him that, while there was nothing
wrong in preaching his uncle's sermons, there was evil in yielding
to cast any veil, even the most transparent, over the fact that the
sermons were not his own.
